


Cold Fire

by Zaratsutra



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: ADHD, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22971760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaratsutra/pseuds/Zaratsutra
Summary: “Em...What do you want me to do?”“I don’t know. You could come hang at Vic’s on Saturday. We’re having a small party.”“Why? We aren’t friends. You want to laugh at me or something?”“Something.” - Patrick said and his face shined in the sun all playful.Against his wishes Richie bonds with Patrick during a joke of a party he didn’t want to go to.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 95





	1. Crashed chips

**Author's Note:**

> Richie having ADHD is my favorite head canon because it fits perfectly. The story is set in modern day. English is my second language so would appreciate if you correct any of my unnatural wording.

It was a hot day. The air above the ground was blurry in the distance, like soap water. Richie moved up a thin asphalt road surrounded by dry grass in a thunderstorm of crickets. Days like this were good in a strange kind of way. The heat and the crickets made it feel like something was coming, but it never did, not any of the previous summers. It was a kind of nervous excited feeling those days.

Richie graduated from his sophomore year of high school a month ago. It felt cool to be so old really, even though he didn’t feel his age. A few years ago he would see seventeen-year-olds in school or in movies about school and think that they seemed like real adults, that they must be strong minded and responsible, organized, can do whatever they please and do it casually - smoke weed like it’s morning coffee, or hook up like it’s a walk in a park. He definitely wasn’t that kind of a seventeen-year-old. Firstly, he didn’t look thirty like those movie actors. He was shorter and slimmer than he pictured himself looking at this age, and those glasses... made his eyes look like a cartoon, but they were a signature part of his style, there was no need to get rid of them right now. He maybe was a bit strong willed, or as someone else would say, stubborn. He liked telling jokes bluntly now, without raising his voice in excitement, without moving his body, or raising his eyebrows. His bad jokes got better, he learned that sometimes not telling a so-so joke to annoy someone would make the punch of his more well-thought out jabs harsher in the future. Organized? That wasn’t about him, it felt like he was in the 0.001 bottom percentile on this part. A whole career in the world of contemporary arts worth of school papers that he was supposed to do or study for filled with doodles spilling out of them, a dozen or so unrelated thoughts, whenever he tried to focus on a math question or a history analysis task, a few excellently written school assignments he was passionate about, a million assignments he failed because they were too boring to bare, a whole ton of all-nighters and one “unrealized potential” was what characterized his organization skills. Were there parties, hookups and drugs in his life? Ha, ha and ha. That kind of life now seemed a rock star level of unachievable. Two parties this year, zero drugs, but he would drink and smoke a little bit on the weekends, no hookups, but he went on four dates total with two different girls. Dates... one was a dirty blonde, a very dirty blonde that always wore a high rise pony. Aubrey Starrett, he’d sleep with her on a whim, but she was so chatty and intense and had this sense of disregard for people and daily life that wasn’t even badass, so he didn’t want to try. The other one, Marcia Robinson - wide brown curls, she was kind of sweet and they’ve kissed. It was nice with her, but not fun at all and he was nervous, so they had only a few date nights. Then there was something else, or better say some other people, but he didn’t like to put them into words in his head. He would just imagine... them sometimes.

Richie neared the top of a short hill after which the road was abruptly ending, and instead of it there was now a small field of sandy soil covered by wide trees, with curved shadows of their leaves dangling on the ground, and thin footpaths swerving in different directions. Near the edge of the field there were Bill, Stanley and Eddie, sitting among the cozy arrangement of stuff they brought with them - soda cans, chips, water bottles, chocolates, some fruit, seemingly to balance the food options out, a card game, notebooks, towels. Now who ever needs parties?

“Rich!”- Stanley smiled.  
“Richie, hey man” - Bill stood up and one-arm hugged him.  
“Hello Richie” - said Eddie looking at Richie and then at the ground.  
“Yo guys. The set up’s pretty cool. What are we doing?” - he sat down near Eddie and Bill, stretching his legs next to the notebooks on Kaspbrak’s towel.  
“We’ve been playing B.S. but it kinda dissolved. We can tell when anyone’s lying.” - Stan explained.  
“Lame. I’d B.S. all of you like it’s nothing. It’s my cup of tea after all, chaps.” - That last part was spoken in a Queen Elizabeth English accent.  
“No! We know your B.S. even better than you do.” - Eddie spoke fast and nasally like he always did.  
“You sir are a bloody wanker to believe I’d ever lose in a game of trickery”.  
“Guys, you wanna play something new, or is just t-talking good?” - Bill asked.  
“I don’t care”. - said Richie  
“Yeah, just talking sounds good.” - said Stan.  
“Depends on who’s talking.” - Richie remarked.  
“Yeah when you talk it doesn’t sound good at all. It sounds annoying and stupid and rude.” - Eddie was rather casual about starting a fight like that, but still sounded like he was constantly running out of breath.  
“That’s sad, cause I’d say you sound very pleasant Eddie. Also very informative.” - said Richie.  
“Aw” - Stanley mocked.  
“Maybe if you didn’t always talk about our moms and other gross stuff you think is funny, it wouldn’t be this sad.” - Eddie pushed those words out like they were clogging up his throughout.  
“Come on, your mom’s not gross.” - Richie smiled at the end of that. Eddie rolled his eyes but smiled too.  
“I don’t think that talking is a g-good idea.” - Bill said smiling.  
“Yeah” - Stanley laughed. “Let’s try B.S. again maybe?”  
“Let’s do it! I’ll dominate this game.” - Richie said, getting ready to have a plane and simple good time.

There were rustling steps in the trees then. Brisk, loud and heavy, maybe it was someone else, but sometimes you just knew what was coming.  
“Fuck guys, I don’t want any people here. You think it’s Bowers?” - Richie asked with a sadness in his voice.  
“I don’t know. Maybe?” - said Eddie.  
“Shit. You’re right... They hang out on the outskirts a lot.” - Stanley seemed like he got the same feeling that Richie did.  
“We don’t know if it’s them. Even if it is we can just move a little. It’s not fair that we ca-c-can’t go here just because.” - Bill said trying to reassure them. Then Henry Bowers stepped out of the trees onto the sandy clearing, and the day felt ruined the second his red shirt stopped moving and stayed in place, stiff besides them. Belch and Vic followed, and a short while later Patrick Hockstetter slowly walked out behind then, staring at his phone. He stopped too. Slow like a slug, Patrick put the phone away, raising his head to them, his eyes met Richie’s and Richie looked away. Hockstetter seemed bored to the point of exhaustion. 

Just by looking at him you could assume he was the bonafied cool guy of the school, and you wouldn’t be all wrong. He was the type of guy who “had it all” in teenage terms - a bored attitude, blunt confidence and good looks. Some people were just naturally cool, cold, others were fiery, hot headed, emotional. And it always turned out that it was better to be cool. But he wasn’t just cool. The other bonafied teenage kings, however cool they might be, were sort of empty past their confidence and sometimes funny mean jokes. Patrick was not just that. He’d lose his cool, but in a weird way. Sometimes he would grin and laugh like he was stupid. He would lay on the school floor, blast strange music in class that just sounded like a lot of yelling, steal random things from the cafeteria for no reason, bounce like a frog in the halls, or chase younger kids while chanting gibberish with excitement in his voice. There were worse things too. He would run down the hall moaning, grab his junk, watch porn in school, show it to bullied kids and ask them how they felt about it. “You feel horny?” “You like it?” “What’s your take on this?” He asked Richie too, a long time ago, when they weren’t that well acquainted with the Bowers gang yet. It was in front of a big group of people at lunch, he brought a laptop that was loudly playing a clip from Pornhub to Richie’s face. -“Oh, I love this one.” Richie said. Patrick didn’t insult him like he would do with the others, instead he paused, licking his lip. “Yeah. Good taste.” Richie felt an odd sort of nice for a moment. “We can watch together sometime.” - Patrick then added and people laughed, but he wasn’t laughing, he just looked at Richie and sat down with the laptop. Ever since then, Richie would sometimes see Patrick following him in the halls and into the bathroom. That was the not cool part of Patrick. It was the morbidly unique part. He was off. He was very cold and very hot at the same time, people weren’t like that. He was, it seemed a cool fire. Something so cold it burned. Richie thought he knew of other cold fire people. He read about them on Wikipedia when he was bored in class. Creepy things had the same nervous excitement to them, that summer crickets did, so he read about tragedies, death, medical stuff, creepy true stories and killers. The killers... those that murdered dozens of people and didn’t completely know why. They were sexually delinquent, had violent tendencies, most likely had one or several mental conditions. It was a pattern of people that just weren’t right. That’s what a cold fire was.

There were noises of arguing, water hissing as it streamed down the dusty ground and the clicking of aluminum cans being catapulted into the sky. Richie didn’t register those noises yet, he was looking at the dancing leaves and thought about the funny little dances that some things in nature do. Bouncing leaves, waltzing snowflakes and fire.  
“It’s bad to leave food that was infected with AIDS in the open!” - Henry yelled while grabbing their chips. Eddie was yelling something in response and Stanley tried to reason, or something.  
“Chill, we’ll give it back. We’re just playing.” - said Vic smiling his slimy smile. Now that was B.S.  
“Hey, I need to talk to Trashmouth.” - the comotion slowed down, when Patrick spoke.  
“For what?” - Henry asked.  
“He owes me money.”  
B.S. again. Richie panicked, but didn’t fail to recognize the situation as somewhat funny. Who would ow Patrick money? A junky? A dead man? He looked at Big Bill, and Bill was looking back at him, they knew something was up. Patrick walked up to Richie, and his face contorted into a stupid smile. “Hey” - Patrick nugged him into the trees, further away from the others.  
“Hey...what is up?”  
“What will you do if I make them leave?”  
“What?  
“What will you do?”  
“I’ll...say...thank you. I’m polite unlike your friends, you know.”  
“It’s an offer dum dum.”  
“Em...What do you want me to do?”  
“I don’t know. You could come hang at Vic’s on Saturday. We’re having a small party.”  
“Why? We aren’t friends. You want to laugh at me or something?”  
“Something.” - Patrick said and his face shined in the sun all playful. “Whatever. I’ll go have fun with the astma twink then, see ya.” and he started to walk back.  
“Wait! Fine, I’ll come to your meth house. Just get the fuck out of here...”  
Patrick laughed his stupid laugh and came back to Richie. They stood right next to each other and Patrick looked down at him. He was tall and lanky, with his hair down to his neck, just a little curly, like Marcia’s.

“...and give our food back.”  
“Nah, I want some.” He twisted back a little and got something out of his back pocket. Richie wasn’t looking at it, he instead stared at the green leaves, shining in the sun like gemstones. He thought about school. Wondered why some people were popular and some were not. He thought that popular kids were confident because their life was good and they didn’t have to worry about anything, so they felt assured. He thought that it wasn’t a matter of how smart, or funny, or good you are, it’s weather or not you have to fight something in your life. Bill had to fight his stutter and the loss of his brother, Eddie had to fight his mother, his fears and obsessions, Stanley had to fight being “different”. And him?He didn’t know exactly what he had to fight, but he distinctly felt that something wasn’t right about him. They could all be popular if they didn’t have to fight. That’s why Richie thought school social life was pointless. It just wasn’t up to you. Plus, the people on the top of the food chain were pretty shit. Like Bowers and his gang. Their lives were so different from his own. He sometimes wondered what kinds of drugs did Bowers gang members take and how often, how many girls they’ve slept with. Bowers had probably hooked up with a few girls that were up for that sort of thing, he never had a girlfriend and seemed to be as much of a romantic as he was a humanitarian. Vic had girlfriends, he was the “good” guy of the bunch, didn’t really go out of his way to bother people like the others, he was just an unpleasant prick. Richie didn’t think Belch got any, but also didn’t think he really cared about that, it was nice to be dumb sometimes, Richie thought. And Patrick... Richie didn’t know, it seemed like he was the type of person to sleep around, but Richie never saw him with anyone and never heard anything about Patrick’s love life either.

“Wake up Tozier!” - Richie looked at him, realizing he zoned out again. Patrick was blowing cigarette smoke in his hair.  
“You want?” - Patrick asked, touching the cigarette he held near his mouth, and Richie realized that he would love to smoke right now.  
“Yeah” - Patrick breathed in the smoke one last time, got the cigarette out of his mouth and passed it to Richie, who felt a little startled. He thought he’d get a new one. He hesitated, then took the cigarette and slowly inhaled the smoke.  
“Write down your phone number.” Patrick gave him his phone with the contacts open.  
“What?” - Richie laughed, taking the cigarette into his hand- “Why the fuck you need my phone number, I know where Vic lives. And what’s the tone? Are you like an army officer or something? What did you expect me to say? Yes sir creep, sir!”  
Patrick sighed loudly and Richie regretted what he said, he didn’t want Patrick to get mad at all.  
“You’re pissing me off. No one likes when you talk that much.” - Fuck, Richie felt awful for a moment. It was true, sometimes he’d get a little overwhelmed with emotion and go on twaddling about something that he felt was funny. Then Patrick laughed “Sorry.” He chuckled again, friendly almost. “I’m just tired. Write the number down, it’s part of the bargain.”  
“Fine.” Richie took his time typing the numbers and for a second wondered why he was so slow even when he didn’t mean to be. He handed the phone back to Patrick.  
“See ya.” - and Richie didn’t like his cold, persistent gaze for the moment they were parting. They looked at eachother, then Patrick furrowed his brows and turned to the field. He walked to the others stretching his goofy legs far away. Their second exchange ever turned out to be a bit awkward and strangely civil. 

Richie started slowly moving back to the field as well. The dusty ground was now wet and muddy and their set up was now in ruins: there were crashed chips, smashed oranges and apples, plastic packages thrown around everywhere. Bowers’s red shirt was twitching as he was laughing, Vic had Stanley’s purple towel on his head, wearing it like a ponytail, Eddie had a red nose and pink eyes and Richie got upset. He felt guilty for staying away from the altercation and not sticking by his friends, but he knew they would get why he went to talk to Patrick. They had an odd chat and made an even odder deal but he managed to help his friends in the end, didn’t he?  
“This is so fucking boring. Why are we here, they don’t even have good snacks.” - said Patrick while putting handfuls of crushed potato chips into his mouth. “Hen, let’s just go to my place and smoke, like normal people.” Henry looked at him, his face thinking slowly. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s boring here... fine, let’s get the fuck out! Are we going to your place?”  
“Yeah, we can.” - said Patrick.  
“You got anything fun there?”  
“I have some fun stuff still left.” - Patrick said smiling.  
“Good, then everyone, get the fuck up, pack your bags, we’re going to Hockstetter’s!”  
And Richie watched as Belch got up from laying on their towels, Vic got his wig off and Henry threw the last orange he was holding on the grown and smashed it with his boot. They started walking away, into the trees. Richie thought that he was a good guy after all. He also thought it was surprising how agreeable Bowers could be. As everyone was leaving, Patrick stopped at the edge of the field, quickly turned and walked up to Richie. “Gimme.” - he said and got his forgotten cigarette from Richie’s hand. With a mockery of a wink and a sly smile he was gone.

“Shit man, what the fuck...” - curse words sounded a little foreign from Stan’s mouth.  
“Yes! What the hell! They ruined everything! Why do they think they can do that? Why do they think it’s funny? I hate this so much, oh my god.” - Edies face was even redder now, he sounded breathy and upset and Richie felt weak.  
“And Richie! What the hell was it there with Patrick?” - Stan turned his attention.  
“Yeah man, what did he want?” - Asked Bill.  
“He, ugh...” - Richie wanted to sound confident in what he agreed on with Patrick, but it was so damn bizarre, there was just no way to smooth talk it out - “...said that...he invited me to a party.”  
“What?! Invited you to a frikin’ party?” - Eddie almost yelled.  
“What?” - Stan raised his voice too and it cracked a little.  
“Why did he do that?” - asked Bill looking at Richie.  
“I don’t know... well, It’s not like we hate each other. It’s just hanging out. He also said he’ll make Bowers leave us alone.”  
“Did you agree to hang out with him so that Bowers will leave us?” - asked Bill, his tone sounding serious and concerned, more so than normal.  
“Was that like a deal?! Dude that’s so sketch, I’m telling you.” - Eddie said.  
“Come on! What are they? ISIS? They’re just people from our school and I’m just going to hangout with them.” - Richie said feeling agitated.  
“Richie are you kidding?” - Stan was pissed now.  
“You can’t go.”- said Bill. “You know they just want to laugh.”  
“That’s cause my jokes are great.” - said Richie starting to walk away. He didn’t want to argue.  
“Richie, wait!” - yelled Bill.  
“Come on man, this is stupid.” - said Stan. Eddie groaned.  
Richie didn’t care, he wanted out, so he just kept going through the trees and the grass back down the hill he walked up from.


	2. Peppermint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it took for me to update, this chapter was pretty hard to write. Hope you enjoy.

He saw Patrick the next day. As he was coming home after going for a walk to buy candy and cigarettes from a bodega there was a loud group of young men speeding on their bikes in motions full of unexplainable furry and whiplash. Richie instantly knew Patrick was among them. He just saw a handful of black hair and heard his breathy bored loud voice. Vic was there too, he saw him. The slim ones would ride bikes, he supposed. Then Patrick split from the group, running first. His joints worked like the metal compartments of his bike and he had a pink serious face on him. He biked among the highway, towards Richie’s path down an alley lane and they looked at each other’s faces when he neared. Patrick stopped his bike softly and stayed standing on it. 

“How you doing, pretty?”  
“Hey.” - Richie forced his voice to sound lazy but it came out more as stiff, he knew. “Pretty” sounded rude.  
“You getting ready for the party?”  
Richie made a crying face and reluctantly shook his head yes, Patrick laughed. The feeling of joking back and forth with Patrick Hockstetter was new. Richie looked at him and Patrick was still smiling. He paused, thinking.  
“Do you and your friends just want to laugh at me tomorrow?” - Richie looked him in the eyes and saw that they were light blue.  
“No.” - Patrick answer with a cold face.  
“Why would you think that, come on, I like you..” - he put his hand on Richie’s shoulder, looked back to the approaching group of boys, and yelled to them, hand still on Richie’s shoulder - “I’ll catch up, gotta talk to my friend”. It didn’t seem like they cared and started to just speed away yelling to each other. Patrick turned back. He rubbed Richie’s arm fast and broad, he was kidding.  
“Eh... I don’t know if that’s mutual...” - Richie muttered, feeling awkward. To that Patrick let go and straighten, looking at Richie with glee, his teeth shined.  
“You got a girlfriend Tozier?”  
“I got a few. Why?”  
“Of course you do.” - he smiled wider. “Just need to know if you’re coming alone tomorrow.”  
“I’m always alone in a sense. So many girls want me, but all that attention is for my looks. No one loves me for me.”  
“Those shallow bitches” - Patrick laughed.  
“They are all like that here, don’t you think, Tozier? All people - shallow and boring.” - the words sounded familiar, like something that had already been spoken inside Richie’s mind.  
“Um... I guess.”  
Past feelings ran through Richie’s mind, like little flashes - the feeling of not knowing if he loved his friends, because sometimes they would just be too boring, feeling like nothing would ever be good enough for him for long, interesting enough. There was a feeling of wanting to devour every little bit of excitement in his life - every story, every activity, every person, every joke; he didn’t have the patience to wait and work around things like others did, he could only snatch what he liked and eat it whole, till there was no more excitement to be had.  
“You know what I’m talking about. All of them go on and on about some boring shit all the time. You at least always have something silly to say.” - Patrick laughed again.  
“And that’s coming from you. You run around and yell like a loonatic at school all the fucking time.”  
“Don’t you think it’s a little funny though?” - Richie realized that he did.  
“We are so similar. Both weirdos, right?”- Patrick smiled.  
“The fuck you’re talking about. You’re just an asshole, you know that.”  
“Aren’t you an asshole too? You think you’re so mature, but they call you Trashmouth for a reason right? You just can’t help but laugh at people. I can’t help that either. It feels good.”  
“Watchu got here by the way?” - Patrick snatched Richie’s grocery bag with a fast motion and started shuffling through all the candy until he found what he liked.  
“Peppermints! Tight.” - Patrick tore the package and got one in his mouth.  
“Well aren’t you a fucking asshole!” - Richie felt angry in a new way, like something was not safe.  
“Relax, girl, we’re just sharing. You share candy and I’ll share something at the party.” - Patrick leaned close to Richie’s face. He could feel Patrick’s breath and see his shining smile in the corner of his eye, Richie didn’t want to look at him directly.  
“I don’t do drugs.”  
“I know, you don’t seem like you would.” - He chuckled. “You want one?” - Patrick asked, getting him a mint from the bag.  
“How generous of you, dear Patrick! Give me my fucking shit back.” - Richie tugged on the bag and Patrick let go, laughing for the whateverth time.  
“Fine, fine... okay Tozier, gotta go.” - he smiled and moved closer, wrapping his hands around Richie’s shoulders. Richie felt Patrick’s heavy arms and broad back, felt his shirt, his long hair and his smell. Richie almost shuddered, he practically never got real, big hugs.  
“See ya.” - He winked and smiled like the last time.  
“Bye.” - Richie said, his voice low. Patrick got on his bike and went away fast, sunshine spots flashed over his dark body. Richie stayed there, still feeling something on his shoulders and smelling peppermint.

When Richie came home the first few things he did was grab a chocolate from the bag, through the bag on the floor, get his phone out, lay on the couch and open YouTube. After a few minutes of searching, he didn’t find anything good in the new uploads, everything seemed boring. He looked back at the bag on the floor. Candy, cigarettes and internet - all three of his addictions were in one place right now. It seemed like he would get addicted to things much more easily than anybody else he knew. He always needed a stimulus and he didn’t know why. He thought back to Patrick, what he said about people being boring. It seemed like it was something that Patrick would just say, but it also felt like he knew something about Richie. Did he know how Richie feels? How he always feels bored, how he feels like an outsider and a bad person, like he doesn’t belong with others, how his mind will always run away to a more interesting place. Does Patrick feel the same boredom? The kind that permeates your life, defines you, makes you an excitement junky? That wouldn’t be too surprising. The surprising thing about Patrick was that sense about him, like he knows Richie. And Richie thought that for what Patrick’s years of watching him are worth, he should know at least a few things about him by now, even though they talked so little. “Weird, patronizing, creepy fuck” - he thought. But there was some morbid curiosity in the tone of his mind. It was the Wikipedia page about a serial killer on a sunny school day all over again. But that serial killer knew you were watching him and reading his story, so he would occasionally wink and smile at you from the computer screen.

Richie got a text from Eddie later that evening. “You still going to the Party?” - it said. The message sounded calm and Richie felt happy Eddie wasn’t that upset at him anymore. “Yeah” - he typed, then added - “It’s really gonna be okay”, “Eds”, “I talked to Patrick, he seems fine”. “Lol”, “I doubt it”, “But ok”, “I trust you”, “Or whatever”. Richie typed the message “Thanks babe” but then erased it, instead texting - “Wanna go to the movies on Sunday?”. “I do”, “But I can’t.”, “My mom needs me to run a few errands for her”, “We can hangout before the party tho”. “Oh ok”, “Sounds good”, “Cya at 10?”. “Yea”, “Want me to ask Stan and Bill?”. Richie thought, then answered “No, it’s fine. Let’s hang together”, “I’m practically your step dad, so let’s spend some quality time”. Eddie sent an upside down smile emoji, Richie smiled. 

A few hours after that, Richie was laughing at a meme Beverly sent him when he got a message from an unknown number, although he instantly knew who just texted him. “Tozier, you still up?”. Richie entered the chat and the message was marked as read, he still thought about not answering. “You’re not planning to ditch me tomorrow are you????”, “You know I’ll get you anyways baby”. “Relax”, “I’m coming” - Richie answered. “Good ;)”, “What do you like to drink?”, “Punch?”, “Beer?”, “Vodka with a pop?”. Richie was surprised at the considerate treatment. “Is it my birthday or something?”, “I like lemonade”, “Cherry”. “Ohh”, “I get it”, “You like sweet things”, “Ur such a girl”. “And you are such a bitch”. “Lol”, “I’ll see u tomorrow”. There were no more texts, but Richie still stayed staring at the screen. He noticed Patrick’s contact had a profile picture and he tapped to view it. Patrick was standing next to a brick wall, somewhere outside. The place looked like it was near the Kissing Bridge. He looked older, like a young man, although maybe he actually was. Patrick was a year above Richie, but Richie heard he was nineteen already. He looked at Patrick’s face: there was a venomous touch in Richie’s stomach, a mix of anxiety and something sweet. He decided to add Patrick’s phone number.

Richie remembered only the ending of the dream he had that night. There were people in an unfamiliar house, all talking to him, their features weirdly sharper than in real life. Girls and men, in a nonsense rush, tapping their heels on the hard wooden floor. Richie felt like he was on a carousel. All the people around him seemed unfamiliar, except for one boy who he has never really met. Richie wanted to go up to talk to him, and as soon as he span a half circle in his spinning mind, landing near the boy, the boy changed. His face cracked like an enigma and it was Patrick: his nose, smile, eyes and all. The boy’s body stayed, he was blonde unlike Patrick, but the face was different now. Then the boy smiled wide and Richie woke up.

He layed in bed and imagined the house from his dream. It had very narrow hallways. When he was done waking up, he saw a message from Eddie, it was already past ten. They met up near the bodega under chestnut paws and big shadows, it was a good place. Richie bought them soda and a candy bar, the Losers used to treat each other.

“What are you gonna do at the party? Like seriously... even if they are okay which - no... I think they are just gonna smoke and do stupid boring stuff all night.” - Richie looked at Eddie and laughed softly.  
“I guess. But I want to be on good terms with Patrick.”  
“Honestly, I think it’s dumb man, you know that. Patrick just laughs at you, like he laughs at everyone, he prolly wants to pull some prank.”  
“Nah... He’s fine, trust me. Don’t be jelly.” - Richie tried to play cool, although he was starting to get agitated.  
“And you, don’t be stupid, Tozier! Like it’s just so weird. The whole idea, c’mon...”  
“Eddie! You c’mon, it’s annoying. Don’t you have better things to worry about, like shaking hands and touching door knobs?”  
“Ha ha, how funny.” - Eddie sounded slightly upset.  
“Eds, let’s just talk about something else. Life and stuff... Remember you told me that story about the girl that got drunk in the library...” - Richie hung his arm around Eddie’s shoulder and they looked at eachother, pairing thin-lipped smiles. 

They talked until the chestnut shadows went away, and the light turned reddish, then Richie got a buzz in his front pocket. “Get ready, I’m waiting for u to come in half an hour” - his phone said. Richie’s stomach felt heavy and annoyingly painful.  
“It’s time!” - he exclaimed in a dramatic voice.  
“Oh, what, now?” - Eddie sounded disappointed.  
“Yeah...”  
“I’ll go with you. Escort you to the final destination.” - Eddie smiled at his own joke.  
“How chivalrous! Aren’t you scared they’re gonna laugh at you?”  
“They won’t even see me, now shut up and go!” - Eddie play kicked Richie’s back with his leg and they both laughed, heading where they knew Vic lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text conversations are my little experiment in this, tell me if they’re hard/ok to read. Wanted to add some Reddie chemistry in this chapter, as well as show how Richie and Patrick are starting to realize their similarities. I’m still pretty torn on the ship itself. It can be nasty and abusive and in this I want to make it more of a mixed dynamic, rather then a clear cut Patrick having all the power.


	3. Cherry lemonade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: read the tags.

When Richie first saw the house, his legs bucked a little. This felt real now and he didn’t want to go. There was a small group of people he recognized from high school, standing outside, smoking, drinking, laughing. Vic was there too and they met gazes, Richie’s anxious and searching for an appropriate way in and Vic’s bored and cold. 

“Hey... so it looks like we’re here.” - Richie said quietly. “Yep... maybe we can just go back, it’s not like you have to go there?” - Eddie suggested, but Richie thought that no, he definitely had to. “Yeah, no, it’s fine. It was nice hanging out, now I may die in peace.”  
Eddie shrugged, then put his hand out for a shake, but instead Richie hugged him with one arm.

“See ya Eds.”

“Bye, stay safe.”

Walking into the house’s front yard, Richie noticed how little people there actually were. A short, bone white house in front of him had two large windows, looking like deep black holes. He turned to his side - people talked and moved lazy, far from a party rush Richie came expecting. 

“Yo... Is that Richard?” - That was Vic’s voice behind him, Richie heard someone half whisper “Trashmouth Tozier”, but he didn’t get upset. The nickname was fine. He turned slowly.  
“Hey. Patrick got me here. You seen ‘m?” - This wasn’t the situation for niceties and small talk. “Ofcorse.” - Vic chuckled, stretching the sound like he was old. “He’s inside, so you’re welcome in.” 

“Uh uh.”

Richie opened the door, but there wasn’t a change of scenery like in the movies. The muted exterior didn’t lead into a room full of color, movement, noize and vicarious excitement. The real room in front of him was spacious, lit only by small lamps and ambiguous strands of bluish and pinkish light, maybe from the speakers, because there was quiet trap music playing, the distance reducing it to clicks pops and chains. There were wafts of smoke catching on the colored light and Richie knew it wasn’t cigarette smoke. Bodies stretched across the long sofas, all suffused with early twilight. Patrick’s frame stood out to Richie. He was laying hunched against the sofa, curved like a long animal. Almost like he sensed him, a pair of luminous white eyes and a smile turned to Richie. A very kind, beautiful smile, that felt like a joke.

“Finally arrived!” - He exclaimed, warm excitement in his voice, his tone was hard to believe. He got up from the sofa and moved in swift motions, dropping his limbs to the floor; they felt so long, he looked like an alien.  
“Yea, I’m here. Glad to see me?”

“I am.” - And his smile turned stupid again.  
“Who you got there Hockstetter? Your debtor Trashmouth!” - Richie heard Bowers’s loud voice, he sounded like he had a fever. Lazy, muffled laughs rolled through the sofa. Patrick stayed unfazed, he just looked at Richie.

“Patrick... what was that thing you told us... about a talk show? Can you... play the vid?” - A voice said from deeper in the room and it didn’t sound sober either. “Damn, you guys are stupid.” - He said, looking away from Richie. Then he looked back at him, smiled a stupid one again, licked his lips and went to the voice. Left alone, Richie didn’t know what to do. He hoped that Patrick would return, but then he heard him talking and laughing from that far corner. He sat down on the sofa, Bowers half lying to his side and Richie’s peripheral vision was sharper than ever. He opened his phone to look distracted. Funny enough, he could be distracted under any circumstances, except for the ones were it would actually be helpful.

“Having fun?” - he heard Bowers ask him.  
“You brought us anything, or you just leeching?” - Bowers spoke again, as Richie kept silent, not knowing how he could have a dialogue with a high Henry Bowers. “Ah... ya boring.” - Henry concluded after Richie didn’t answer again.

“Sure.”

Richie saw Bowers stand up and stumble to Patrick’s corner. “Let me see those fagots!” - he yelled as he moved.

Richie also stood up. He moved further into the room, to the kitchen. Nearing the kitchen counter Richie saw that Patrick got the cherry lemonade. It was a branded bottle he haven’t seen before, a pink glass bottle. Richie would have loved to drink from it, had he been in a better mood. Instead he got himself a mostly empty forty from the counter and prayed that nobody had spit in it or something. His phone, the kitchen counter and the forty promised to be the beacons of safety for the nearest future. Richie did have to answer to a few frases from unpleasant acquaintances here and there, but nothing bad happened after all. After all Eddie turned out to be wrong, his friends turned out to be wrong, he turned out to be just a regular guy invited to a regular shit party. The only price of safety that evening it seemed like was drinking warm beer, feeling tired and lonely. But soon enough, Richie got to a point were he couldn’t stay at the counter anymore and needed to get somewhere else. Going to the bathroom was a classic solution and who’s to say it wasn’t a good one. 

Richie put down the nearly empty forty and went back to the living room where he saw a staircase. He looked around, searching for Vic to ask permission to go up, but didn’t find him. It would be stupid to ask permission anyway, so he got upstairs. The second floor seemed more cramped, like a room in a treehouse. He went through a corridor past few doors with keyholes and pulled on the door that had a regular lock; it was the bathroom. Richie locked himself in and got a cigarette out of his back pocket. The bathroom had a small window that opened like a door of a sports car, he lifted it up into the night air and smoked besides it. Then he heard a knocking.

“Tozier! Is that you in there?” - Patrick yelled from the corridor. “Why you locked up in here? I am looking for you.” Then Richie saw the door knob turn together with the lock and the door opened. On the doorstep was Patrick - red and smiling.

“You invite me to this shit party just to abandon me? How’s that for a nice guy?”

“No but I was searching for you! Seriously!” - Patrick laughed. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” - he looked directly at Richie. “Vic would kill you... He freaks out so much, a real bitchy girl.”

“Yeah... I have a Vic impression.” - It’s not something he thought was funny enough to show people like Patrick, but he was tired and it seemed funny enough for him. Richie cleared his throat “Hey babe, wanna go check out my lego collection, it’s so cool, no cap.” - he said making his voice sound obnoxiously viscous.

Patrick laughed. “He does have a lego collection.” - he laughed a little longer. “You know... when he starts nagging, he gets so red and he reminds me so much of my ex’s red face when I used to fuck her.” - Patrick paused. “You ever fucked a girl?” - He presided with a sly smile.

“You’re a real normal person, Patrick.” - Richie said coldly, not knowing why Patrick thinks it’s funny.

“I know.” - Patrick sounded excited again. “Can you do me? An impression.” 

“I guess... okay.” - Richie thinked the impression through and a smile escaped him, Patrick noticed and smiled too. Richie cleared his throat and got into character. He hunched his back, ran a hand through his hair, put on a dumb smile ear to ear and lowered his brows. He walked up to Patrick swinging his hands and feet side to side, looked at him with the combination of caricature confidence and uncontrollable glee. Patrick chuckled at the stair.

Looking directly at Patrick, Richie said, ramping up the mania and eccentrism in his tone - “My name is Patrick Hockstetter and I am a don’t do drugs, kids commercials star.” They both burst out laughing. 

“Cute.” - Patrick said when he calmed down. Richie didn’t know what to say. “How did you get in... what’s up with the door?” - he asked after a pause.

“The lock is bad, you have to turn it hard, until it clicks.” Patrick went to the door and demonstrated the click, locking them up. He smiled back at Richie.

“The party’s... shit, Patrick.”

“I know, I know. Good I found you here.”

“What about your cool friends?” - Richie smiled.

“I told you, they become boring after some time.”

“Yeah, I get that.” - Richie’s eyes grazed Patrick’s face.

“Nothing fun’s happened, but we kinda look fucked up still... you’re so red.” - Richie smiled. He glanced in the mirror above the sink. “And Jesus, I look horrible.”

“Relax.” - Patrick laughed.

“You’ve been the prettiest thing ever since I met you.” - And Richie is horrified by how good those words feel. The world sharpens and stopes being real when Patrick slowly moves and kisses him. Sloppy and wet, the silence and the kiss sound deafening. Patrick holds Richie’s jaw with one hand and puts the other one on the back of his neck. Richie knows he wants it and wants to punch himself in the gut. He then finally realizes what he is supposed to do and pushes Patrick away.

“What the fuck are you doing!” - he yells.  
“C’mon Tozier, don’t panic, we both want it.” - Patrick’s eyes glimmer like firebrands, focused on something he’s picturing in his mind, his mouth is wet and his face turns wicked and happy. He moves back to Richie. Richie feels wrong and light headed when Patrick puts his hand on his thigh, looks at him and licks his lips.

“Get the, fuck off me, what didn’t you understand!” - he yells again. “I’m not into this shit.”

“It’s fine.” - Patrick coos. He puts his hands on Richie’s shoulders, moves into something resembling an embrace and then tilts his head down and presses his lips to Richie’s neck. They both hear each other's loud breath for a moment. Richie feels Patrick’s hair, smells him, feels how heavy he is, feels his kisses and knows that his own limbs are about to fall off.

“Yeah?” - Patrick pronounces an encouragement at Richie’s shaky breathing, panting himself. Richie looks at Patrick lost, they lock eyes and Patrick takes this as an agreement. He presses Richie into the wall with his weight, slides his hand under Richie’s shirt and sucks the skin on his neck. Richie feels like his breath had been knocked out of him, then feels himself getting hard.

“No, no, no, no, fuck no.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna make it feel so good.” - Patrick says into his ear with shaky breaths and Richie wishes he never came near that part of his body because he’s shivering.

“It’s okay I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Get off... Patrick, get off.”

“I know you’re into this, I know how you look at that little fagot friend of yours.”

“Shut the fuck up.” - Richie feels uncontrollable anger in his hands and gut.

“Hey, hey.” - Patrick moves back to his ear. “It’s okay. We both know what feels good, let’s do it.” - Patrick lifts Richie’s chin up and they stare at each other with empty eyes, then kiss. Richie kisses Patrick back this time. Patrick slides his hand down to Richie’s crotch and feels him up. Richie wants them both dead. He let’s Patrick touch him, because it feels too good.

“You want it.” - Patrick repeats exhaling loudly around Richie’s mouth. He strokes Richie up and down through the fabric, then shifts his hands to the edge of Richie’s shirt and lifts it up. Richie presses his hands on the shirt’s fabric to not let Patrick take it off. “Let me see you.” - Patrick chuckles, raspy, a laugh Richie hadn’t heard from him before. “If you want to stop, just say it.” - he smiles an ugly smile, knowing that Richie doesn’t want to stop.

“I don’t want to do anything.” As an answer to Richie’s words Patrick squeezes his sides with all force and presses their erections together, grinding. “You’re so hard, Richie.” - he whispers.

“Fuck off.” - Richie feels so good. They stay like that, Patrick moving against Richie and Richie not daring to move. Patrick lays his head on Richie’s shoulder. That feels more intimate than the movement of his hips. He then parts their bodies taking half a step back. His hands are on Richie’s shirt again and Richie pretends like he doesn’t care when Patrick takes it off and smiles. 

“Fuck, you still look so young.” - Richie’s silent “What the fuck is that supposed to mean” is undercut by Patrick’s warm hands on his chest. He circles Richie’s chest and touches his belly, then smiles, undoes Richie’s zipper and slides his hand into Richie’s underwear to touch him.

“Fucking...” - is all Richie can say, he hunches over, leaning against Patrick’s shoulder and breathes into his cheek, because it’s too hard to stand on his own. He can barely breathe, and he feels sweet poison steering in his knees and pelvis. He wants to fight, wants to die, wants to scream, but his legs are too weak. After a few minutes Patrick pulls away.

“What if I blow you?” - he drops to his knees and looks up at Richie with two evil eyes. Richie doesn’t believe it, “insane” he thinks, but he feels Patrick’s hair on his stomach. 

“Say you want me and I’ll do it.” - a smile. That’s what the smile means, it means Patrick can get what he wants. Richie feels Patrick slide his jeans and underwear down to his knees, “no fucking way, no fucking way” he thinks. He doesn’t want Patrick, he doesn’t want a boy.

“I want you...” - Richie doesn’t get even a second to contemplate his awful words, because Patrick takes him in whole, like a fucking pornstar. Richie feels like he’s on a carousel because the walls are going round and round. He looks down at Patrick sucking him off and doesn’t believe it. Patrick deepthroats him and Richie wonders how many guys he’s slept with. He wants Patrick so badly. That’s when Richie exhales with the slightest moan, but Patrick hears it. He looks up at him, mouth still on Richie’s dick. Richie grits his teeth to not cum. He shuts his eyes with force and opens them. There are bright blue circles, flashing like ghosts around Patrick’s blue eyes, he bobs his head down Richie’s length one last time, before sliding off it, his lips are so red and wet. He gets up, touches Richie’s neck, then his jaw slowly. 

They kiss again, harsher and more giddy this time. Patrick breaks the kiss. He undoes his own pants, slides them down together with his underwear and starts jerking himself off. He looks into Richie’s eyes.

“Now... can you put it in your mouth?” - Richie feels confused excitement at the suggestion, “disgusting” is the next thought in his mind.  
“Rich, I did it for you.” - of course he did. Richie thinks that that’s what you do when you have sex, you have to do things for the other person. He feels an obligation to. Richie gets on his knees slowly, hearing a barely audible “yeah” from Patrick. He sits between Patrick’s thighs, not knowing how to start.

“Just put it in, it’s fine.” - Richie does. He moves his head down, taking in half Patrick’s length. Up and down, up and down; it hurts a little. Then he feels Patrick grip his hair and pull him further. Richie chokes, as Patrick fucks his mouth. It feels wrong, Richie rememberers the days he pretends he forgot: his classmates laughing, boys running away to hide from “that fag”. They called him “pervert”, someone who likes things normal people would never like. A normal guy would never be Richie right now.

“Fuck, Ri-” - Richie hears Patrick’s voice and he needs it right now. He needs to hear Patrick calling him, needs to know he likes him. Patrick thrusts harder, grips more of his hair.

“Trashmouth is right...” - Patrick spits out and it’s not just a joke. He thrusts into Richie a few more times and comes in his mouth. Richie’s surprised, he jumps up and spits the cum into the sink behind him, flushes it with water. He looks at Patrick, who runs a hand through his long hair and then moves closer to Richie. Patrick takes Richie’s erection in his hand and starts jerking him off. For some reason Richie didn’t think he would do that. Patrick moves even closer, pressing his body to Richie and resting his face on Richie’s shoulder. Patrick smells like sex and cologne, his shoulders are wide and his fingers are so long. His skin is so warm against Richie’s. 

In Richie’s stuttering mind there’s a thought about how he finally deserves intimacy, he finally deserves to feel and smell and have a body presses so close to him. He thinks he deserves Patrick and it’s like an epiphany that Patrick is the only person Richie deserves. 

“Baby...” - Patrick whispers and Richie comes at the worst words he has ever heard in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Improved on the formatting, so I hope it’s easier to read.


	4. Mac and cheese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge TW for rape! This has gone a route I didn’t initially think it would, so read with caution, the abuse is very graphic.

Richie can’t fall asleep that night; his stomach can’t stop cramping. He barely eats the next few days. He gets a small Baskin-Robbins ice cream for breakfast and his insides bubble in protest to the one third of a mac and cheese plate he gets as a second meal. When he naps there are flashes of yellow light and boiling hot touches on the back of his eyelids; he’s always only half asleep. His thoughts are in such a rush that they have outrun him some days ago and he can only sneek short glimpses into his mind. He sees pictures: black windows, a chestnut, tanned skin, a school desk and a “click”.

He tells Eddie the party was fine. Eddie doesn’t text him much. Stan and Bill ask him out a few times but he declines. Richie lays on the bed and watches YouTube videos for days; he feels danger all around him, like he’s stuck in water that is going to boil. 

But at the back of his mind he feels a slipping sensation of excitement and happiness, and when he gets to recognise it even for a moment he feels that it doesn’t really belong to him, as though it was given just for a time.

Richie goes for a walk to the kissing bridge. He likes to look at the motley graffiti on the bankseats and imagine that aliens would treat them like murals of a long lost civilisation. They would think that Moose was a ruler of some kind; he wrote his name on the walls of Derry more times than anyone else. Bowers would certainly not remain unknown and the aliens would think that “hoe”, “slut” and “gay” were titles. Richie had noticed how the graffiti got better over time as he was growing up. The colors became more vivid, calligraphy sharper and more winding.

He walks along the first bankseat, the one build on shore for a few times, then he crosses the bridge and gets down to the other shore’s bankseat. When he walks alongside it he recognises a blue color. It’s the cyanide blue graffiti that Richie saw on Patrick’s WhatsApp profile picture. 

It feels as though Richie has a wooden skull and it smoulders delightfully at that moment. He steps away from the wall and sits down on the wet grass near the water. His stomach jitters. 

He takes his phone out and opens their conversation with Patrick. He taps Patrick’s picture to see it again and in his eyes the curved blue lines behind Patrick dance like exotic snakes. Richie thinks about what he needs to write, feeling like he is on an exam.

“Hey!”

“Haven’t heard from you in a while”

“Been wondering if we could meet?”

He goes to check other social medias waiting for a response, but it doesn’t come in the next five minutes, so Richie gets up and goes home. The walk back is half an hour, when he arrives and sees that the lock screen of his phone is empty, his stomach jitters.

Richie goes back into the daze of social media. He hears voices: people telling jokes, reporting on the news, commenting on the latest movie relieses; sees Bev’s latest picture and Ben’s sketches. But at the back of his mind is the slipping sensation of happiness. He has to do something to get it.

He checks Patrick’s contact. Patrick has been online five minutes ago. “It’s alright” he thinks and an image of a stoic man sentenced to death flashes in his mind. “It’s alright” the man says to no one.

Richie cries that night. No one has seen him cry since he was a child because he doesn’t look right when he cries. His tears are hot, his breath catches and his face gets red.

When he was little his friends once got collectively upset at his bossiness, his patronising tone and annoying jokes. Richie balled and balled like he was crucified by an entire nation until his friends came to cheer him up as though they were older than him. But the thought, the sense that he can not be any other way, that he doesn’t mean it like they mean it, that he doesn’t think like they think, that his mind is different, that it runs, sprints and he babbles, sprints together with it, is tied into a sailor’s knot in his head. And ever since then only the knot in his throat gets untangled. 

He wakes up late. He goes for walks, talks with his mother about college. 

He lives through more days. Richie knows he will forget them in an instant but wonders why they feel so long. A long fog of green leaves and alight screens.

One day is particularly hot. Richie’s thoughts and strength are vapour. That day he gets a message from Patrick.

“Hey”

And then - “Sorry, been busy”

“Uhhh idk when I’m free”

“I’ll text when I have time. Ok?”

Of course he’s been busy! That’s what Richie thought. And it didn’t even take him that long. Richie counts - four days. All of a sudden he’s happy as ever, but he feels a need to be cold, something telling him he should be upset. 

“Okay, sure” - Richie writes.

He beams at the wall. Goes for another walk and excitedly thinks of new jokes he can add to his standup routine that he’ll perform someday. He talks with Stan on the phone, tells him some of the new jokes, they laugh and Stan remarks that Richie’s been quiet the past few days and that now he seems especially happy.

“I guess I’m just like that.” - Richie tells him.

A day goes by and then another. The heat intensifies and there’s nowhere to escape it; the evening sky is now white. Richie’s curtain is broken so his room is always bathed in light. It’s dark but much hotter under the blanket. Too hot; his stomach jitters. 

The heat dies off, but Patrick is still busy. The sky in the night is deep and blue. There’s smoke coming towards it. One of their neighbours has a fireplace. What a cunt. 

Richie lays on cold grass late at night and hears girls laughing loudly nearby, motorcycles swerving. In a perfect world there are no such sounds.

Where is Richie’s fireplace, where is his motorcycle? When can he laugh like that? Why was he never allowed to? Never, never allowed good things. Always bothered, always abused between the lines. And even if he gets the stupid fireplace now - he doesn’t want it. He wants something bigger, something more interesting, more sophisticated. Something that none of those idiots could have ever thought of. And he can’t quite think of it either.

Richie mouthes upset questions into the pillow in the dead of the night. He feels distraught. His head will hurt after crying. “You really always punch down, God.” - Richie whispers.

“Hello”

“Sorry, the week’s been busy”

“How ab we meet today?”

The messages feel wrong. Richie wants to wait, to show that he is busy too, but he only manages two hours because his stomach jitters.

“Yea, I’m free today.” 

“When the fuck am I ever not free? The stupidest shit I have to text is this bullshit role play of a normal busy person.” - Richie thinks to himself.

Patrick is quick to respond - “4-5 pm ok for you?” 

“4 is good” 

“Your place or mine?” - Patrick writes.

“Yours”

When the time is up he asks Patrick for directions. He sends Richie the map and then another text.

“You up for some fun?”

Richie’s chest is hot; there are many thoughts in his mind at once. All this time he needed to meet Patrick, but he never knew why. And what else could it be if it’s not, well, sex. They aren’t friends, aren’t anything. It must be the thing he wanted. 

“Yea” - Richie responds.

He settles himself on a bike, feeling the skin on his back become cold with weary and at the same time a kind of aching, hot bliss charge in his stomach. Must be what it feels like when you’re excited, must be what you feel before you do “it”. 

He tries to speed away from his house, move his feat with the power to make the wheels spin for ages the way Patrick moves them, but his feet feel too light, like his bones are hollow. 

Patrick lives quite a long way away down Kansas street, a few blocks shy of the old Neibolt house. Richie and the losers once went there a few years back. His friends would point at shadows, freeze at the floor boards creaking and pretend that the homeless man resting on the floor of the room next to them was a monster, but Richie refused to play along. He walked around ahead of the others, told Beverly and Bill they were stupid for believing in ghosts and smashed a few windows that still remained intact with a baseball bat he brought from home. Eddie yelled at Richie as the glass jingled, dropping to their feet like rain, but he still walked close to Richie and sat next to him on the dirty wooden floor.

Richie drives up Mile Hill, the sunny McCarron Park and the golden windows of Derry Public Library flash behind him. 

He gets a text and checks it, holding onto one handlebar. 

“You’re on your way, right?”

“Yea. I’ll be about 10 minutes.” - Richie responds with his bike swerving like an angry snake. 

“I’ll be outside to meet ya.”

10 minutes later Richie is at a crossroads. Looking to his right, far away in the distance he sees an old, dark cross on the walls of Neibolt Street Church School, so he turns the other way. Richie isn’t good with directions but getting to Patrick’s house is easy. 

Sand and pebbles crunch under his wheels when he drives down Patrick’s street. The houses on this street have mossy rooftops and the paint on their walls is peeling off in patches to reveal tan wood. Richie notices that there’s nothing beyond the unkempt yards on one side of the road, just thick yellowing forest. 

Richie slows down as he approaches house number fourteen, seeing Patrick’s figure sat down at the front porch. Patrick looks up at him and waves, then, as Richie carefully puts his bike on the long grass and comes up to the porch, takes his time stretching and getting up. Richie waves at him and smiles with only his lips and Patrick slowly pulls him into a hug. 

“Hey” - he greets Richie. 

Richie tries to pull away from the hug, pushing under Patrick’s ribs. They look at each other. 

“Hello.” - Richie’s tone is successfully void of feeling, but his body still tenses. 

“Nice to see ya again”, - Patrick smiles. “Wanna come in?” - He gestures with his shoulder. Patrick opens the door and Richie jerkily climbs the steps from the porch to the door after him. 

“You can take your shoes off here” - Patrick says as he passes a small velvet stool, heading to the kitchen table that is visible to Richie through a large opening in the wall. Patrick is barefoot. 

“So what have you been up to this past week?” - He asks from the distance.

“Nothing much. Just relaxing... lots of booze, lots of illegal activities, you know?” - Richie rubs his neck, distracted from the firmly tied laces on his shoes.

“Gotchu, gotchu.” - Patrick smiles. - “Wanna drink? I have orange juice, water, beer...cherry lemonade.” - He looks directly at Richie.

“What is this? An airport lounge?” - Richie chuckles. “Um... water will be good.”

Richie looks around at the cramped space of the hallway. It’s wallpaper is covered in red and white patterns, vaguely floral tracery, the kind his mom would call “sham luxury”. There are pictures on the walls, all in the same heavy foe wooden frames. He sees one with a young petite woman and a handsome young man next to her and assumes that they are Patrick’s parents. There is a series of Patrick’s baby pictures next to it. He looks to be no older than a year, yet already has a head full of dark hair. There is that same woman on another picture next to preteen Patrick grasping at her hand. The small frame of the aged woman now makes her appear pimping. The wrinkles on her face are deep like scars. Then there is one small picture, smaller than all of the others; it’s hung in a bottom corner. A picture of another baby, it’s hair thinner and lighter than Patrick’s. 

“Do you have a sibling?” - Richie asks. 

“Not anymore. She died when I was little.”

“Oh god, I’m really sorry.” - Richie feels dumb for bringing the girl in the little picture up.

“It’s fine. Come here now, won’t you?” - Patrick calls sounding a tat angry, almost as though about the long wait, but not entirely. 

Richie follows his voice slowly. He sits down next to a table where Patrick has poured water in two cylinder glasses. Richie drinks the water knowing that he doesn’t want it and should have refused, while Patrick barely takes a gulp. It’s silent.

“So you wanna go up maybe?” - Patrick asks. 

“Yeah, sure.” - Richie says wishing Patrick didn’t ask, but instead just lead him wherever they needed to go.

They walk up the spiral staircase and down another cramped hallway into a bedroom. The room isn’t too big, but it feels spacious as there’s little furniture. 

“Is this your room?” - Richie asks, a bit surprised as to it’s appearance. 

“No, that’s my parents room, will that be okay with you?”

“Um... yeah, I think that’s fine.” - Richie lies. He looks around but there are no pictures of that woman or her husband to see.

“The bed is just much bigger here.” - Patrick turnes and smiles at him.

“Just the right size for a pillow fort.” 

Patrick smirks, his eyes glistening as though they were struck with flint, his lips are shiny too. 

“Is that what you think we’ll do?”

Richie knows it’s not, but the truth is hard to believe. This can’t happen again, like lightning striking one spot twice. Even though he wants it to, or maybe he doesn’t. He’s here though, so it must be happening again.

Patrick’s Adam’s apple moves up when he swallows. He puts his hand on Richie’s jaw and moves the other one on his chest, palming at Richie’s body. He presses at Richie’s frame to make him lean on and then settle in the bed. Patrick touches his chest lightly and then tries to take his shirt off, but Richie backs away.

“Um, can you please stop... I’m not sure if I want to do this right now.”

Patrick stills. His Adam’s apple goes up and down again and then he licks a brief smile off his face. 

“We can go really slow. Maybe you want to set the mood?”

Richie rubs his elbow and looks at the shifted covers. 

“Yeah, okay, let’s try...”

Patrick pushes at Richie’s shoulders to lay him down. 

“Can I kiss you?” - He asks with a smile.

“Yes.” 

As they kiss Patrick touches Richie’s shoulders, his chest and ribs and then settles on grabbing at his hips. Richie feels himself getting hard and that makes him uncomfortable. Richie touches Patrick’s wide, warm chest, to witch Patrick lowers himself onto Richie, pressing their bodies together. Richie feels the tight pressure above his dick and rolls his hips. Patrick pulls away from the kiss and whispers into Richie’s ear.

“It’s okay. I can make you feel good. You wanna take your clothes off?”

Richie props himself up on his forearms and lightly shakes his head yes. He takes off his shirt and jeans and then looks into the distance as Patrick pulls his underwear down for him. Patrick is smiling. He starts stroking Richie’s cock, gladly looking at his face. 

Patrick has big hands, nice hair and a pretty face. Richie feels pleasure and thinks that this might be okay. He can touch Patrick and give him a handjob and he’ll feel good when Patrick does the same to him.

Then Patrick pulls away. 

“Just a sec.” - he says with addible glee.

Patrick goes into the adjacent room, one that Richie assumes is his own. Richie hears rushed shuffling of drawers for a moment and then Patrick slips back inside with a bottle of lube in his hand. Richie’s face darkens under Patrick’s eager eyes.

“No. I don’t want to do that...”

“I’ll just use my fingers. I’m gonna be really gentle.”

Richie shakily puts his forearms away from underneath himself and lays down. Patrick is just going to use his fingers.

Patrick coats his digits in lube and slowly inserts his middle finger. He starts moving fast right away, but it doesn’t hurt Richie. Richie feels his loins ache the way they do when he has been jerking off for far too long.

Richie stares at the dim yellow light that flickers from the crooked glass bezel on the ceiling. Patrick’s dark hair reflects the light. He pulls his finger out and tries to slide one more back with it. Richie gasps and grabs the thin covers. Patrick smiles.

Short noises of discomfort hit Richie’s heaven and turn guttural, but Patrick might have the right idea, it might feel better with two fingers in.

Richie looks to his side where the slid covers reveal magenta flowers. Richie grabs at the flowers as he feels a sharp stab of pain.

“Stop! What the... What are you doing?”

Richie jumps up with a shake of his upper body and looks at Patrick. Three of his fingers are inserted into Richie. 

“Just adding one more.”

“I don’t want any more. Two is already a bit painful.”

“Just hold it in for a little. It’s gonna feel good in the end. You’re just too tight.” - Patrick says without a smile.

“No... I don’t want to, I’m not into this at all. Let’s stop, okay?”

At that Patrick’s face begins to move. His eyebrows furrow, his lips stretch wide, the veins on his red forehead bubble and a horizontal wrinkle runs down to his eyes.

Patrick suddenly climbs onto the bed and throughs one of his legs over Richie’s hips. He straddles him firmly, applying all the weight of his body to keep Richie down. Richie starts thrashing and yelling at Patrick.

“Come on, not the time for this! The fuck you’re doing?! Get the fuck off, this is not funny!”

When he tries to shake Patrick off with violent, erratic upward movements, Richie realises that Patrick is set in place like a statue, the legs straddling him are iron bars of a fence. Richie catches his breath for a moment, looking all around. He stills anticipating the joke to end, waiting for Patrick to get bored.

But then Patrick rolls back on Richie’s hips a little bit. He looks into Richie’s eyes and doesn’t smile all the way, but keeps a warm, gentle expression. He probes at Richie’s entrance with two fingers again. Richie screams and pushes back with his hips, mustering all the strength in his body.

“The fuck! You know what you’re doing fucker! Stop! Fucking stop now!”

As to not let Richie free himself, Patrick pushes at his shoulders and lays on him, pressing down on Richie with his whole body. Patrick’s weight chokes any motion Richie tries to produce. Richie’s breath breaks into fast hoarse gasps and short groans of struggle. Patrick lets the silence and the fearful gasps sit between them, until Richie starts thrusting up at him and Patrick stifles him again. Then, he’s sure.

“Shit, I really am that much stronger. Thank god.” - he says laughing gruffly. “Finally something fun.”

“The fuck you’re talking about... cunt?” - Richie manages to push out panting. His face is red and slick. 

“You know.” Patrick stretches his hand down to Richie’s pelvis, where he has parted the younger’s legs with his own and tries to push his fingers inside Richie again, but Richie clenches his mussels so tight that Patrick can hardly claw in half of a finger. Patrick laughes, tilting his head up, then exhales and rubs his glabel. 

“You’re really making me sweat here for you Tozier, aren’chu? It’s okay, it’s okay... play hard to get all you want to...” - he says with an expression of gratified languor that only comes from a beloved craft. 

Richie’s eyes are now wide and red. He doesn’t know what to tell Patrick, what to do. He tries to thrust up again, but he’s weak from the panic and the suffocation that Patrick’s body brings. Richie’s faint attempts to throw Patrick off bring his erection to grind against Patrick’s and that makes the boy harder. His lips curl from the shame and anguish at his own body. Richie feels like he should reason with Patrick, plead for himself. He might let Richie out for an offer. A blowjob, or whatever else could satisfy Hockstetter. But Richie doesn’t stifle his emotions so that he can reason or plead, and so instead he speaks up again with barely hidden fury in his tone.

“What’s your plan now? You can’t... touch me there. Can’t do anything. Are you just going to lie on top of me until what? Until you give up?”

Patrick just smirks at him with half of a smile, making Richie aware that he missed something, some variable of this brutal equation. The older moves his hand away from Richie, slyly reaching for his own back pocket like a toddler reaching for an unwilling pet. He takes his phone out and waves it slightly to the side of Richie’s face. Patrick smiles at the hyper attentive stare that the boy gives. 

“I’ll just snap a picture of you. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Richie rolls his eyes back from the rush of emotions.

“Patrick, you... shit. Just don’t do it. Don’t fucking do it. I don’t want to have sex. What’s in it for you? Come the fuck on!” - Richie’s voice breaks at the last sentence.

“Just a pretty picture.” - Patrick laughs at the absurdity. “You know you’re hot as hell, especially like this, no harm done.” - he says while grabbing Richie’s wrists in one hand and parting their bodies to sit up slightly, getting the right angel. Richie sees this as an opportunity to get out, so he springs up with a swift motion and breaks his hands from Patrick’s grasp. This prompts Patrick to land a hard punch into Richie’s nose and lay on top of him again. Richie groans from the pain, feeling hot blood rush to his skin to redden the soon to be bruise. 

“Very good.” - Patrick pants in his ear. “Only harm would be if someone were to see this picture, or maybe if a lot of people were to see it.”

Richie’s heart stammers for a second. Horror and distress floud his mind, but another emotion swims to the surface of his consciousness. Richie feels betrayed.

“You said you liked me.” - he blurts out without thinking. “Why are you doing this now?”

Patrick looks at him, taking in the sight of a naked, broken down, still hard Richie.

“I do like you.” - He gulps and then smiles. “The way you thought I liked you, I do. But you can be too boring for me sometimes. Especially when you shy away from fun.”

Richie shakes his head - “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“We’ll have fun Richie. You just need to listen to me. And I know you’ll like it. Don’t even try and pull your attitude with me... don’t even try it. I got your nudes.” - Patrick chuckles. “I like you Tozier. I’ll be gentle just for you.”

Richie lies under him quiet.

“Did you get that, Richie?” - Patrick rasps in his ear.

“Patrick, please...” - Richie holds his tears back long enough to make his nose feel like he just took a deep dive. “You say you like me... We can do stuff... I can blow you. Please just get up, my legs are so fucking numb.”

“Did you get what I said?”

“I’m gonna get you locked up, fucker.” - Richie spits out, tears breaking past his waterlines.

“Sure you will.” - Patrick smiles knowingly. “Sure you will...” - Richie lets our a quiet sob.

Patrick gets up, sitting on his knees atop Richie. He gives the younger some time, then speaks again.

“Not going to run, are you?” - his tone is encouraging. “Glad you understood me after all, Richie.” With a warm face Patrick presses down to Richie’s neck, leaving small gentle kisses. Then he lets his hands follow to Richie’s body, touching only lightly.

Richie shuts his eyes and feels the aftersound of fear and disgust and happiness and need that is now familiar. “The worst is yet to come” - he thinks to himself and pushes the feelings to the back of his mind.

Patrick slides away from Richie’s body and sits up between the boy’s legs. He puts two of his fingers inside Richie. Richie doesn’t quite feel hurt or ashamed, he feels as though there is an abdominous hot slug, crawling through his guts. 

A short time passes and Patrick puts in a third finger. There is no pain from the intrusion, Richie notices how quiet Patrick has gone and how much precision he had added to his movements.

“Not that bad right?” - he asks Richie.

“Fucking disgusting.” - Richie sputters.

Patrick uses his other hand to lightly touch Richie’s cock, leaving him to lay free underneath. 

“You’re into it though.” - he smiles with wholesome pride. “And I told you, none of this attitude with me.” 

Richie feels a jolt of something down his spine.  
Something feels familiar. 

“I’m putting it in.” - the feeling intensifies, his heart is drenched in hot slime. Richie begins to protest with a split mumble, but then shuts himself up.

Patrick holds Richie’s waist with one hand and guides himself inside with the other. Richie looks up at the ceiling, where the dim yellow patches of light start hopping like blazes. They dance together with Richie’s insides, as he feels an itch start to build under his rib cage. Patrick is methodically sliding over his prostrate. Richie lets himself moan quietly under Patrick. 

“You little fucking faggot.” - he hears from above. Richie shudders.

“So pretty for me.” - Patrick grunts again while grabbing fistfuls of Richie’s red hips.

Richie looks up at Patrick, sees that his eyes are dark and wet.

“I’ve looked at you so much. I’ve always fought off the urge to beat you up till you’re bloody as a kid, but this is better. You look so much better.” Patrick’s breath bates with clinical amazement as he speaks. 

Richie turns his head to the side and his glasses slide off a little. His breath comes out in huffs. 

“You like me being rough, I know it.” - Patrick tells him when their eyes meet again and the older grabs him harder. The hot thick bile inside Richie is now thicker than glue.

“You can play a straight guy all you like, but you’re mine, you’re moaning under me.” - Patrick’s tone is hoarse and aggressive. He speaks into Richie’s ear and shakes his body up and down. The bile in Richie’s stomach brings a sense of connection between the two.

“You’re a slut Trashmouth.” - the older grunts. Richie moves his hips slightly to aid Patrick’s thrusts.

They pant and Richie writhes beneath as Patrick’s hands roam his body harshly, folding his joints side to side like paper. 

“Are you a good boy for me Tozier? Are ya? Tell me!”

“Yes.” - Richie almost swallows the word. Patrick brings his head down to Richie’s and they kiss with pation and force. Richie grunts into the kiss and bucks his hips. Patrick envelopes Richie in his arms and licks at his lips in encouragement.

“Say it, say you’re fucking mine and I’ll let you cum, I’ll let you cum.” - Patrick shouts when they part.

“Yeah, I’m yours.” - Richie moans lowly.

“That’s right.” - Patrick puts his firm hand on Richie’s cock and strokes him for a minute, until Richie cums moaning and out of breath. Patrick bucks his hips more recklessly into the body that has gone limp. A look at the redliped, tired boy with cum on his stomach helps Patrick finish. 

Richie winces at the feeling of cum filling him inside. “You’re fucking mine” - his mind supplies.

Patrick pulls out and moves to lay with Richie near the headboard. After a few moments Richie springs up to run away and hide, but Patrick settles him down with a warm hand.

“Let’s lay like this. It’s part of the bargain.” - he says. Richie lets himself relax his body into the covers. He deserves Patrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know most likely no one will see this chapter as I’ve stalled on it for so long, but I’m still happy with how it turned out.


	5. Cold fire bonfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW! For abusive relationships and self destructive behaviour.
> 
> I’m finally done with this :) It was really hard to keep writing after the third chapter as I lost interest but I intended to finish this fic. I hope this is an enjoyably read to the three people that will reach this chapter.

A week later Patrick assaults Richie again. He takes the boy from the back. Patrick’s hand goes up Richie’s spine to where his shoulders are pinned to the wall and then back to his narrow hips. Richie’s fine mussels bulge as he works to keep his body steady, grasping at the wall. His boyish defiance is in the way he only lets himself pant and hiss, never letting his voice out. Patrick’s jaw clenches at the want to make Richie cry, so he pulls out and fondles Richie. The boy starts whimpering quietly as Patrick puts himself back inside.

Patrick takes Richie in the forest. The boy’s hands scratched at Patrick’s back like the twigs on the ground. He blows Richie at the junkyard and then requests the same for himself. He takes him in Belch’s old family Pontiac, where Richie kissed him a lot to calm down. He touches him on the bus, on their way to Patrick’s house, where he takes Richie again. He wrestles Richie down on the ground once when the Loser’s club bump into the Bowers Gang again, making it all off as teasing. As they wrestle Richie grabs at Patrick’s erected cock harshly. He gets his metaphorical beating at Patrick’s house afterwards.

Richie becomes even more talkative among his friends. They know that he has been hanging out with Patrick. They grow accustomed to Richie’s anxious chatter about his unlikely new friend. The group is quieter than usual when Richie stops talking, it treads upon him, so he resumes.

“The weed Patrick gives me is pretty good. You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t smoke, you know that.” - Eddie says.

“I don’t know, m-maybe sometime.” - Bill responds after a pause.

Richie smokes with Patrick in Vic’s basement. The linoleum floor is warm under them and the whole room shines with bright white walls and the pleasant light color of the floor’s wood pattern, same as the amber trickling through the bark when a real tree is cut down. 

“So I told her I would probably get in just on a track scholarship. She still made me take the fucking SAT three times. And for what? I didn’t study for it, I told her I wouldn’t. I had like a twelve hundred, then I got like thirty points less, then I got a low thirteen hundred.” - Vic stands tall and willowy, leaning against a bar counter style table.

“And you didn’t study at all?” - Patrick asks from the floor.

“No, I didn’t! It was all just luck.” - Vic laughes. 

“Yeah...” - Patrick smiles. “I’ll take a year off, I don’t care.” 

They talk some more but Richie doesn’t hear them. He imagines how fast Eddie would be able to read out tongue twisters whenever he’s upset. The thought is funny to Richie.

“When is he going home?” - Vic asks nodding at Richie with his pale head.

“I’ll take him with me whenever I’ll leave...” 

At some point not long after, Vic is gone from the basement and Patrick’s hand brushes up Richie’s leg. Richie stares out the black window, but can only see the dingy reflection of the luminous room he’s in. It’s night already, he realises.

“You wanna fool around?” - The question is like a formality to Patrick, but this time Richie feels as though he can answer truthfully. He’s relaxed and it has been a whole month since the last time Patrick brought up Richie’s naked pictures. 

“No, I’m tired. We can do it tomorrow?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a party pooper.” - Patrick shoves his tongue in Richie’s mouth and gets on top of him. He rubs Richie’s body down gently, brings his natty fingers to grasp and circle the cartilage of Richie’s ear. He does that all the time when Richie is unwilling. He becomes gentle and touches sensitive spots. Richie usually warms up, but this time Patrick’s weight and heat feel like a liability.

When Richie is like this, Patrick’s hands don’t carry any sharpness, he can’t get under his skin, can’t ignite an ache of excitement in the boy. His presence is dull.

Richie pushes Patrick off lazily, a little playfully even, hoping the older isn’t too adamant on them having sex, but Patrick doesn’t give in. He lifts Richie’s shirt up and trails the outlines of his costal cartilage, where his skin dips down with no fat or mussel. He grasps Richie’s waistband next.

This time Richie pushes him with force and Patrick loses his balance, collapsing to the floor near Richie. 

“Why are you like this?” - Patrick’s smile is displaced with his tone of voice. 

“Huh?” 

“Why do you agree to trail me like a dog everywhere and now you all of a sudden don’t want me?”

“I don’t want you right now.”

Patrick sighs and jerks Richie’s arm so he’ll stand up. He shoves Richie onto a narrow leather couch and presses on top. Richie reddens and his mussels tense. He would punch Patrick in the dick with his knee, but the threat of Patrick releasing his pictures is always at the back of Richie’s mind. Patrick reaches for his waistband again, slides his jeans down and reaches into the boy’s boxers. Richie is flaccid; Patrick pulls back and his eyes wander aside. Now the assult feels more gravely. Patrick decides to precede and attempts to peel Richie’s jeans off his legs. 

“Get the fuck off.” - Richie’s breathing is controlled. His eye contact is piercing, it makes the expression on his sweaty face somewhat assured. The same way he looked assured when he through empty insults at his bullies in middle school. All Patrick can do in response is giggle.

“Get the fuck off me!” - Richie shouts. Patrick throws Richie’s jeans on the floor and reaches for his boxers. 

“You are a nasty fucking asshole. You make me stay with you!” - Richie starts kicking Patrick in the stomach.

“No, I don’t.” - Patrick laughes croaking.

“Yes, you do! You are a fucking rapist.”

Patrick laughes a little more quiet. 

“Come on, it’s not that serious.” - He says. “I’ll make you feel good like always.” 

“Get the fuck off!” - Richie yells, pushing at Patrick’s body with his arms and knees.

“Alright, alright, Jesus fucking Christ, Tozier... Let’s go home then.” - Patrick says as he starts to get up from the couch, his hands raised, his chest heaving and his gaze swinging side to side. 

“I’m going alone.” 

Their next time is different. Richie comes to Patrick’s house late, Patrick takes a look at his blue under eyes and puffy face, knowing that Richie has been nervous after he sobered up. He smiles briefly and makes it into a sign of leniency as he waves a hand to the boy in his hallway. 

“Hey...Patrick.” - Richie mutters.

“Get on the couch.” - Patrick tells him as he goes up the stairs. He comes back with a bottle of lube and finds Richie sitting on the couch already naked, his clothes lay in a clump on the coffee table. Richie looks at Patrick’s hands with lassitude, waiting for them to start touching his body. Patrick is sensitive to the contrast between Richie’s silent compliance and his lack of interest, but he smiles still. 

“You are a good boy for me, aren’t you Richie?” - he asks while taking his clothes off, keeping eye contact. Richie’s face scorches a little at the words. 

“Uh-huh, whatever you say Patrick.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you are, don’t be shy.” - Patrick pulls his jeans off, Richie knows that he doesn’t wear underwear. “And I think you deserve something for that.” - He settles atop Richie’s lap, kneeling his wiry legs on the couch. He kisses Richie lightly on the lips and pulls away with a confident smile. He reaches for the lube and starts warming it up in his fingers. 

“Do you want a treat?” - He asks Richie. Richie looks at Patrick’s pencil thin fingers and follows the chiaroscuro shifting on his hand as he spreads his fingers and reaches behind himself. Richie finally looks up at Patrick in slight confusion, he feels his blood rush. 

Patrick inserts one of his fingers inside himself, moving it slowly together with the slight rocking of his hips. He adds more fingers while Richie is watching.

“Do you want a treat?” - Patrick repeats, grasping at Richie’s sharp shoulder, his hair brushes Richie’s cheeks. Richie looks up at him, getting a peak at one shining yellow and blue eye atop the curve of the older’s neck and the angle of his jaw.

“I guess.” 

Patrick kisses Richie as he takes his fingers out and lifts his hips higher, lining them up with Richie’s cock. Richie breaks the kiss and breathes heavily, eyes snapping wide with disbelief as he looks down at Patrick’. 

He moans when Patrick lowers his hips, sitting down on Richie’s cock. He looks at Patrick’s and Patrick smiles back at him seeing the boy’s tense face.

“Good... Now don’t blow your load in the next five minutes.” - Patrick says, to Richie the words spark a thrilling thought of coming inside Patrick. 

He hesitantly puts his hands on Patrick’s hips, looking up at him briefly and then slowly starts to thrust up together with Patrick’s shallow grinding.

He wants to make Patrick’s body wind over him, cherishes his quickening breath, so quick it reminds Richie of Eddie. He grips under Patrick’s knees and tilts his own body to the left, turning to face the vacant space on the couch. 

“Can I?” - Richie manages through the straining effort of his body.

“Yes.” - So he lays Patrick down on the couch. He puts his palms flat on Patrick’s ribs and muscles. Richie clothes his eyes to feel Patrick better, he hears Patrick’s breath and slight hums clearer. Then a fantasy takes over Richie’s mind - the phantom sensation of Eddie’s breath on his neck, his tan hips under Richie’s grip and he’s the one Richie feels around himself right now. One more second and Richie’s going to hear his pained voice. 

But he hears Patrick moan quietly and his mind runs with it. He wanted his hands on dark hips and he wanted pale white arms to drape over his back like webs, he wanted to see Eddie’s face when he cums, but now he wants to kiss Patrick. 

He cums inside Patrick, gripping his thighs frantically until they turn copper. Patrick giggles as Richie pulls out and Richie likes that giggle, so gentle it’s sound. The sensation of his pelvis mussels spasming subsides in a minute and as Richie feels the firmness of controlled movement return to his limbs, he looks back at Patrick sprawled our on the sofa, legs hanging to the floor and his hand stroking his erection briskly. 

Richie settles on the floor between Patrick’s legs с колен подтягивается наверх to comfortably grip Patrick’s cock. He takes it into his mouth and starts bobbing his head fast, reaching far down the length. Patrick sits up carefully and looks at the boy sucking him off intently. 

“Good boy... Love seeing you so happy on my cock.”

Patrick presses a hand to Richie’s макушка as a sign of approval. Richie smiles around the cock in his mouth. 

Richie’s sleepless deliriousness on the cusp of ocherous orange sun gets thicker from Patrick’s warmth. Warmth that fills Richie up or twines around him, as well as the warmth in Patrick’s words. Richie feels Patrick walking across the lanes of his thoughts, he’s a hefty blackening presence in a delicate colourless world of marijuana dreams. The striped rays from the blinds gloss on their crossed skins.

It’s been half a year since Richie started seeing Patrick. When they wake up Patrick goes down to heat up hot pockets for their dinner and Richie sits in the covers thinking. He glances at Patrick’s small desk table, where there’s a notebook and a pencil that has rolled to the edge. A few of the pages inside the notebook are filled with clumsy, bold writing. Richie’s jokes written down with numerous add ons and corrections in a semblances of a small routine he can try out some day, most likely in college.

They have a bonfire in the forest that day, just the two of them. The heat beats down on Richie’s face and he can only hear the clicking wood as Patrick talks to him. Everything Patrick tells him is important and meaningless, just a funny dichotomy. Richie has a flash of thought, one about how if Patrick threw him into the fire right this instant it would feel cold and Richie would be okay with burning. The lick of flame, he pictured, would feel like an immersion into a cool hotel pool. He’d burn like a wooden man, like Pinocchio the biggest liar. He certainly lied to himself enough to be in this forest near this bonfire right now. 

“What’s up baby? You’re thinking so hard.” Patrick’s face shifts closer to Richie’s.

“Everything’s fine, ‘m just tired of you talking.”

“You’re tired of me talking? What a bitch you are Trashmouth, seriously.” - Patrick laughes and then pauses. “Are you afraid of the fire?”

“What am I, five?”

Richie knew the fire wouldn’t kill him. You can’t walk into a fire like you can walk into love and that’s what terrified Richie as he was slowly sobering up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn’t know how to finish this. I had three potential endings in mind and decided to go for the one that didn’t resolve their relationship but also didn’t worsen the abuse I have outlined for the plot. Richie here reflects in some parts a lot of familiar experiences of coping with childhood trauma. He’s getting better at being productive but he indulges in very unhealthy coping mechanisms and won’t confront or leave Patrick because he doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of a better position in life.


End file.
